The downward spiral continues: Writing. Coffee. The perils of external combustion. Staying the course. Dogs and cats living together. Inspiration and creativity. Drugs, guns and fucking in the streets.

Sunday, August 24, 2014

On Breaking My Own Coffee Pot

I've been uncommonly tired for the last couple of weeks. The kind of tired which arises out of...who knows what. Stress? Existential crisis? Humidity? Fatigue rays from the Xorquonian Attack Fleet currently in orbit about Mars? Something.

But I've been more logey than usual. When I'm not at work, exercising or actually at sleep, I've been in a bit of a fog. I think it's my body's way of telling me that I should probably go to bed earlier, even though seven and a half hours should be enough.

I got back from work that afternoon, in a somewhat exhausted frame of mind. I made supper. Finished washing dishes. I turned around, towel in hand, to mop down the stove and prep surfaces, not thinking much about anything. My right hand went into exactly the wrong trajectory: rib cage level when it should have been either way up or way down. My thumb was turned just-so as it swooped around, hooked the lip of the Chemex and off we went.

The Chemex is a beautiful thing, a wondrous example of mid-twentieth century industrial design. It is simple and elegant and curves like a piece of modern art. It's one of those appliances which looks exactly as it should be, the sort of simplicity which makes you appreciate, say, a paper clip for looking like it does, for being put together in such a way that it couldn't possibly be anything else than what it is and still do what you need it to do. A Chemex is, simply. Irreducible design and beauty. Perfection.

And it makes a beautiful tinkling noise as it breaks. Wind-chimes in the first gust of wind before an autumn storm. The first icicle to drop during the spring thaw. It took me a few moments to realize what had happened. Then I stared at it with the hard stare you give when you want to will the universe to rewind for a bit.

There is a frankly incredible amount of glass in one of those damn things. I think Schlumbohm was ahead of his time when he designed it. He must have invoked futuristic alien geometries, possibly not of this universe, name-dropped Elder Gods, twisted glass through the ten dimensions, making a Klein bottle that also, coincidentally, brews perfect coffee. I'm still finding glass in my kitchen, three days later.

The replacement won't be in until tomorrow or the day after.

It is astonishing just how much I've come to depend on that morning pot of coffee. And not even on a purely caffeine-related basis. I don't really need the stimulant to get through the day. I just find having a pot of perfect coffee in the morning helps launch the day properly. It gives me something to look forward to when I go to bed sometimes.

So, basically everything has been thrown off kilter. I've been making tea instead. It's awful.

The novel's going well. In the middle of the climax, writing action sequences, which are always a lot of fun. Hopefully, the home stretch will go just as well.